


reach

by zhuzhubi



Category: Criminal Minds (US TV)
Genre: Angst, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Relapse, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-01
Updated: 2020-10-01
Packaged: 2021-03-08 00:01:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,587
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26746297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zhuzhubi/pseuds/zhuzhubi
Summary: spencer lashes out at reader while high/using and they talk it out the morning after
Relationships: Spencer Reid/Original Character(s), Spencer Reid/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	reach

**Author's Note:**

> also on tumblr @zhuzhubii

Spencer comes home and walks straight past you, swaying on his feet a little and letting his bags drop to the floor. The sound of the metal buckles clacking against wood makes you jump - all of this immediately strikes you as strange because although he wasn’t expecting you to be in his apartment when he got home, he’s never straight up _not noticed_ your presence before. And he’s never been so careless with his things - especially his beloved leather satchel - either. 

He stops by the bedroom door, pawing at his eyes as he braces himself against the wall - his long hair is even messier than normal, falling into his face as if to shield him from the outside world. And yes - he’s been away for almost two weeks on a case that _obviously_ didn’t go well. But you’ve seen Spencer after bad cases before, and he’s never been like _this_ , never been so…so _out of it_ , for lack of a better term. 

He _usually_ closes himself off and refuses to say anything about the case except the dreaded _I don’t wanna talk about it_ (you know it’s his way of trying to protect you from the things he sees on the job. But you really wish, for his sake at least, that he’d let you share that burden with him)

_This_ isn’t anything like that, isn’t anything like the short standoffishness borne of bad cases that you’ve grown used to - he’s too calm, too physically unsteady. If you didn’t know better, you’d think he’s drunk - but that can’t be, right? You’ve known Spencer for six months now, have been dating him for almost as long, and you’ve never seen him take a _single sip_ of alcohol. And it’s not like he’s just been drinking behind your back the whole time - he doesn’t even keep _cooking wine_ in his cupboard, much less any kind of hard liquor. 

You inch closer to him, but he still seems completely oblivious to your presence - when you finally reach his side, you softly call out, “Spencer? Are you alright?” and he responds with a delayed jolt of surprise, lifting his eyes and looking over at you for a brief moment before deciding it’s too much effort and leaning his head back against the wall.

He mumbles out an unintelligible response and your worry grows with every slurred syllable. You try your best not to let it show on your face - though you doubt Spencer would be able to tell either way - and lean in a little closer, tilting an ear in his direction. “Spencer?” you repeat, unable to stop the concern from leaking into your voice.

“What’re you doing here?” he slurs out, the words so garbled together that you can barely understand him - you tentatively reach a hand towards him, brushing it against his upper arm -

He snatches it away with all the coordination he can muster up, tucking his hands to his chest as if to protect himself, looking at you with fear in his eyes. It’s then that you notice his pupils - they’re constricted to pinpricks, almost as if -

“Are you _high?_ ” you blurt out without thinking about what his reaction might be, so shocked by the notion of _Spencer Reid_ abusing drugs that you don’t have time to stop yourself. 

His flinch is a little delayed, but it’s there and it’s undeniable - you just blink at him because you don’t know what else to do. This is the last thing you expected when you decided to stop by and wait for him to come home from the case. But as you’re standing there and staring at him, watching him curl in on himself in a mixture of shame and defensiveness, you start to think about it - you don’t think he’s been using consistently since you’ve been together, but then you realize that you’ve never seen him without a shirt on. And if he’s been trying to stay sober or trying to get clean in the first place or wherever he is in that whole process…well, then that certainly explains the avoidance of alcohol. 

“No…no, I-I’m not…I’m not, um…,” he tries to deny it - _yeah, I could’ve predicted that_ , you think - but can’t stop himself from averting his gaze. His right hand migrates to the crook of his left arm - you can only stand and watch as he digs his thumb into his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, no doubt tracing over marks that are much fresher than he’s willing to admit right now.

“Spencer…,” you gasp, your eyebrows drawing together as you consider his current condition - he takes one look at you and it sets him off for some reason. Suddenly he’s backing up and cramming himself further into the wall, anger building in his eyes as he inches toward the bedroom door -

“Don’t _pity_ me,” he spits out, trying (and failing) to mask the unsteadiness of his voice.

“I’m not,” you reassure him, taking care to keep your tone gentle and soft now that you’ve had more time to process what’s going on, “I promise, I’m not pitying you. I just want to help -”

It was clearly the wrong thing to say. Spencer immediately becomes even more guarded, eyeing you suspiciously as he interrupts. “Liar!” he shouts, his voice cracking a little from the sheer force of the word.

You’re admittedly scared by his behavior - though much less _of_ him than _for_ him - but you know you need to be the strong one right now. But everything you’re doing is complete guesswork - you don’t know what his history with drugs is, nor even if he has one for sure. You don’t know what he took or how much or how long it’s been. You have _no training_ on dealing with this type of situation - you have _no idea_ what to say to him.

Your thoughts are racing - all you know for sure is that he reacted badly the last time you got too close to him. So you try to work off of that, maintaining your distance as you speak to him in what you hope is a calm tone, your voice wavering a little, “Spencer, why don’t we, um - why don’t we go sit down?”

He stares at you as he tries to process your words, his eyes coming in and out of focus as he glances between you and the floor. “Spencer?” you try again when he doesn’t respond, instinctively taking a step closer as you try to judge his response -

“Get away from me!” he yelps, slamming himself back into the wall and clumsily scrambling for the bedroom door. You reach out for him, trying to stop him from mistakenly hurting himself - 

“Get out!” he snaps, eyeing your hands as if they’re weapons, “I didn’t ask you to be here, I didn’t ask for your _help_ \- just get the _fuck_ out and leave me alone!”

When you remain standing there he lets out a noise that betrays fear and frustration, backing himself into the bedroom as he tracks your non-existent movements with suspicious eyes. He slams the door and it rattles the walls of his apartment - you can’t seem to make yourself do anything but but stare in shock at the still-vibrating door, barely daring to take a breath as you try to process what just happened. You sink to the floor, imagining Spencer’s angry features as he ordered you to leave - knowing that his actions were at least somewhat borne of fear and confusion and frustration (and acute cognitive impairment most likely, no matter how much Spencer might try to deny it) doesn’t make you any less hurt by them.

You just sit there for a while with a frighteningly blank mind, then you drag yourself up off of the floor. Something compels you to press your ear to the door - just to make sure Spencer’s at least somewhat okay, you guess. But while the soft noises he makes while moving around his bedroom reassure you that he probably hasn’t overdosed, they do little to calm your still-racing heart. You close your eyes and lean your forehead against the wood instead, sucking in a shaky breath as you try to figure out what to do.

Something draws you to his bag and you find yourself staring down at it, reaching towards it and unbuckling the straps, peeking inside the main compartment and the side pockets and -

Your fingers close around a little cloth pouch and you hear the sound of glass on glass as it shifts around. It feels like the air has been sucked out of your chest - up until this point you’ve been half-thinking _no I’m wrong there must be some other explanation for this_ but as you lift the pouch out of his bag and look inside, you can’t lie to yourself anymore.

Inside is a single glass vial holding some kind of clear liquid (you pretend not to notice that it’s only half full). It’s surrounded by a couple wrapped hypodermic syringes, a handful of individually packaged alcohol wipes, and a blue rubber tourniquet - you clench your eyes shut and squeeze the pouch closed, not wanting to look at the evidence anymore. You zip it closed without opening your eyes, then take it over to the coffee table, looming over it as you breathe shaky breaths - _in and out in and out_ , desperately hoping that if you just keep breathing a plan of action will spontaneously come to you.

You’re suddenly exhausted, sinking down onto the couch as you have a staring contest with Spencer’s secret. _Trying to talk to Spencer before he…he_ comes down _will be useless anyway_ , you think, _and I’ll be able to deal with this better after I get some sleep. Yeah, things will be better if I just sleep on it first._

…

You awaken to the feeling of sunlight on your face and a warm presence by your side - there’s a moment where you forget everything that happened last night, where you start to smile and say “good morning,” thinking you and Spencer feel asleep on the couch while binge watching Doctor Who. 

And then you remember. 

You snap your eyes open and turn toward him, immediately catching sight of the little pouch he’s turning _over and over and over_ in his hands - he glances at you for a second and notices that you’re awake, then swallows nervously and averts his eyes. “I…,” he starts before losing his words, opening and closing his mouth as he blinks back frustration - if you know anything about Spencer Reid, you’re pretty sure it’s directed at himself.

You just look over at him and wait, unsure of how you’re supposed to feel in this situation, unwilling to cut him any slack without an explanation. He clears his throat, curling in on himself a little and thumbing over the pouch - he eventually manages to force the words out, his voice small and cracking as he says, “I am _so sorry_ I said that -”

“Don’t apologize, just explain,” you interrupt, clenching your hands together in your lap as a million possible explanations rush through your mind.

“Okay…um, I-I…,” he starts, shifting in his seat as he tries to collect himself, “I was…I was clean when we met, and I still was un-until last night. I just…um, I-I couldn’t…”

“Spencer, what happened?” you furrow your brow in concern, leaning a little closer and drawing his hands away from the pouch, drawing circles on his palms - you’re not sure yourself what exactly you’re asking for him to tell you.

He looks up at you and you notice how watery his eyes are - you get the feeling it’s more than just the drugs he hasn’t told you about. His chest rattles with barely-held-back tears as he suck in a breath, clenching his eyes shut for a moment before beginning to speak -

“We were on a case and things…things went wrong. JJ and I went to interview a victim, but then…but then he turned out to be the unsub and-and he started to run and I said we should split up and pursue him instead of waiting for backup. I-I almost got us both killed, he -”

And then Spencer’s crying for real, his breath hitching as tears leak out of his eyes - you squeeze his hands and bring them up to your chest, trying to help him keep his breathing steady -

“I heard JJ scream and then Tobias knocked me out and the next thing I knew I was…I was tied up in this shed in the middle of nowhere and he was hitting me a-and injecting me with something and pointing a _gun_ at my head while he -”

He cuts himself off with a choked sob, curling forward on himself as it rattles through him. You pull him into a hug - nearly sobbing yourself when you feel him flinch at first - tucking his head into the crook of your neck and rocking him gently back and forth, whispering “Shhh, shhh - it’s okay, it’s okay. You don’t have to talk about that part if you don’t want to - Spencer, I’m here, it’s okay.”

You don’t know how long it is until he finally calms down - he pulls his hands from yours and starts playing with the pouch again, his voice barely audible as he spits out, “I want it _so badly_ …”

You place your hands over the pouch and try to make eye contact, letting him know that you want him to let you help, but painfully aware that you can’t force him to. He just clutches it tighter, his fingers teasing over the zipper and his gaze locked on the tiny piece of metal. “You know, I did everything I could to stop - and I did. I was clean for just over ten months before last night,” he says bitterly, letting out a humorless laugh before he continues, “But you know what?”

He finally looks up at you, a mix of resignation and fear and sadness in his eyes. “What?” you whisper out, almost afraid of what he’s going to say - dreading the possibility that he’d rather go back to the drugs instead of fighting to stay clean.

“These things?” he says, glancing down at the pouch and feeling the contents before looking up once again, “Even after I decided I was done, I could never make myself throw them away.”

It prompts you to tighten your own grip on the pouch - you don’t try to pull it away from him, but instead let him know that you’re willing to help. That he definitely does have to put in the work to get past this (or learn to live with it, at least), but he doesn’t have to do it all on his own. 

And you know that it won’t be easy. You know that you can’t love addiction away, that this will probably be something that he’ll have to deal with to some degree for the rest of his life. You don’t know how to feel about him keeping it a secret, about him relapsing instead of coming to you - but you do know that this isn’t an issue you’ll ever understand fully, that Spencer doesn’t always _know how_ to reach out for help and that he tends to lash out when he’s afraid. 

Those are all issues for the future. What matters right now, right in this moment, is that Spencer loosens his grip and lets go.


End file.
